It's an utterly
miserable Saturday the evening I attend The
Jackie Look, Karen Finley’s newest
offering at the Laurie Beechman Theatre. Outside
is a drenching squall, the kind that impedes the
MTA from any kind of function. The gales are gusting,
the gutters are gushing and the audience trickles
in. This affords me much time to sit back and
survey the room and I find myself questioning
this little gem of an Off-Broadway theatre as
a venue for Finley’s work. The space almost
feels too pretty and refined to house the queen
of performance art and there are certain patrons
who seem as out of place at the cabaret tables.
Near me there is a pair of young men dressed identically
in Kelly green corduroys, Necco-Wafer-toned argyle
sweater vests and orange bandanas tied as ascots.
It’s extreme, but it’s a style.

Then it occurs
to me. I’m about to watch a piece on Jacqueline
Kennedy Onassis who is just that: an iconic symbol
of style and refinement. So maybe, I decide, Finley
and her posse do belong here. As I sit and absorb
the ambiance, I become aware of something else.
I am likely the youngest person in attendance
and I am suddenly nervous that I may be at a severe
disadvantage for understanding this piece. I know
little of the queen of performance art (other
than that she is one of the NEA Four and that
her material usually leaves her dripping in gallons
of honey or melted chocolate) or for that matter
Jackie O, other than what I’ve learned in
history books. I’m nervous that I may not
relate to the artist or her subject, as I have
little to no personal connection to their obvious
cultural contributions.

I’m happy
to report that Ms. Finley leaps gracefully over
both of these hurdles and manages to entertain,
educate and unnerve the room in a way that few
can. The piece begins with a digital slide show
of Jackie through the years, as Bouvier, Kennedy
and Onassis and the stills are slyly juxtaposed
with an underscore of Fergie’s “Glamerous”
and Britney Spears’ “Piece of Me.”
Upon her entrance, Finley –looking stunning
and timeless in white pants, the trademark 3/4
sleeved blazer and Gucci shades- interposes herself
between Jackie’s life in photos and her
life on the stage. With a light and breathy voice,
she announces that she’d like to give a
talk on “The gazing or looking-at of Trauma.”

Before launching
into this lecture, Finley’s Jackie gives
us a preliminary glimpse into what she means by
that. The home page for The Texas School Book
Depository, which is now a museum, is projected
on the screen behind her. She takes us on a tour
of the site showing us the Abraham Zapruder film,
photographs of the gun Oswald allegedly shot JFK
with and many more. Via Jackie’s genteel
scrutiny, Finley impressively compares and contrasts
much of the collection with controversial works
of art like Andres Serrano’s “Piss
Christ.” She examines the photos and pontificates
on how her public pain has been turned into a
museum.

We even browse
the gift store and are shown the various collectibles
one can buy from the museum: a “tasteful”
holiday ornament -to which she remarks “if
this is tasteful then I don’t want to see
the ones that are not”-, a die-cast replica
of the limousine they rode in on the day of the
assassination and a set of silver spoons with
JFK’s portrait on the handle. Of the spoons,
she quips “I’m so happy that I don’t
have to put my husband’s head in my mouth.”
She seems at once amused and miffed with these
tacky trinkets and the clear disregard they represent
toward a National Tragedy. It forces one to wonder
what kind of objectification we will see at the
9/11 Memorial.

It’s here,
with her audience warm and her motive clearly
defined that Finley finally lets us have it. She
derails from the hitherto polite and organized
train of thought and launches into a bold and
alarming stream-of-consciousness diatribe on how
photography provides organization of catastrophe
and that life is more important than art but is
meaningless without it. Moreover, that we benefit
from photographs of traumatic events because we
can see our emotional responses to a condition
by contrasting our current emotional experience
versus a past emotional memory time. Simply put,
that images of suffering create a canvas for communal
grievance.

Retiring the honey,
Finley’s Jackie drips with sarcasm acknowledging
her own contribution to the style of looking at
trauma. She reflects on becoming a public grieving
space by her demonstration of grace in public
in lieu of shattering. As she reveals the tremendous
damage this emotional baggage has cost her “you
wonder why I hide my eyes behind dark glasses…”
her voice drops into the primal and you expect
a flood of tears at any moment. Finley is a master
at vocal manipulation and while her guttural utterances
evoke a certain emotional strain, her action remains
firmly disconnected from her sound. It’s
confusing and nearly a turn-off until we realize
that through not showing her grief, this becomes
part of her statement, as she is always on for
the camera. We can hear her tears, but brilliantly,
we never see them.

Instead, it’s
on to the next instance of style, “And now
… let’s watch … some Johnny
Weir.” Or -in a particularly moving, albeit
startling, bit about the media attention surrounding
Caroline Kennedy’s use of the phrase “you
know”- to discuss the scrutiny of powerful
women. Finley makes the attempt to elucidate the
phrase, as an utterance, was first used in the
1960’s. She explains that Caroline’s
use is not, you know, unintelligent but rather
a reaching out to or an inclusive gesture to whom
she is speaking. She posits that perhaps this
sole-survivor of the Kennedy lineage isn’t
actually saying, “you know” at all.
Rather she may be unconsciously pleading to be
released from the indignities she’s dealt
with her entire life: “YOU … NO.”

Beneath the mirage
of Finley’s blanket theme, stews a mother
load of historical commentary and feminist insight
through which she plows with dizzying urgency.
It is not surprising that this piece has already
enjoyed two extensions, as there is something
here for everyone: the clinical psychologist culture-junkie,
the socially conscious Jackie disciple, the parade
of devoted Finley-philes and yes, the anxious
27 year old theatre buff alike. Ms. Finley raises
the bar for simple, captivating performance art
and leaves one wanting more. Fortunately for us,
with The Jackie Look, when it rains,
it pours.

Next Fall arrived on
Broadway this month with so many critical hosannas
from those who saw it off-Broadway last year that
the single thought I had going into it was that
it could never live up to the hype. Lofty statements
proclaiming that it is the first play to deal with
the interfaith conflict in a gay relationship make
it one of those “I-dare-it-to-be-that-good”
events.

Much has been written (even by
me) about the bold producers who flew in the face
of convention to transport the entire ensemble intact
to the Great White Way--and the director who has
the terrific task of trying to retain the intimacy
of the original when 400 more seats are involved.
How could they live up to the ballyhoo?

Well, miraculously, it is and
they do. Next Fall is quite simply the
best American Broadway play since August: Osage
County.

Let’s get one further thing
clear, to label Next Fall a ‘gay
play’ or ‘a play about religion, love,
death, life, faith, blah-blah’ is doing the
show a disservice. Yes, it’s all of those
things but it is so much more. And what should sell
Next Fall to audiences is that it’s
a damned good play!

First time playwright Geoffrey
Nauffts has fashioned a compelling narrative around
a relationship between two men and in the process,
asks many questions about the couple and the people
in their lives. What he does not do is answer each
question. There are no simple explanations. No happily
tied together loose ends. This can be maddening
for the sitcom-oriented viewer. It is, however,
heaven, for the ravenous theatergoer.

Each character is carefully etched
so that they all have real and interesting journeys
beginning with the central couple. Adam (Patrick
Breen) is a mess of a human being. He’s a
slightly bitter, mostly pessimistic hypochondriac
who also happens to be an atheist or agnostic, depending
on the moment and the scene. He meets the Pollyanna-optimistic,
adorable, sweet and devoutly Christian Luke (Patrick
Heusinger). Luke is much younger than Adam and his
view on homosexuality is that it’s a sin punishable
by eternal damnation—which is why he prays
for forgiveness after sex. This does not sit well
with Adam but he stays with Luke. And Luke’s
religious views are complicated by his intense love
for Adam.

The play bounces back and forth
in time telling the story of Adam and Luke (note
the obvious biblical names) framed by more somber
scenes happening in real time.

Along the way we meet Luke’s
estranged parents as well as Adam’s best friend
and a quiet and rather mysterious man who Luke used
to be friends with.

Under Sheryl Kaller’s seamless
and fluid direction the actors are given the freedom
to explore and expound on the playwright’s
script and they do so effortlessly. Maddie Corman
is hilarious as Holly, the self labeled fag-hag.
Connie Ray’s marvelously etched performance
as the flightly Arlene is a wonder to behold. And
her final moment in the play stayed with me long
after the show was over.

Cotter Smith’s work is like
watching a Master Class in acting. He takes a character
that is impossible to like and gives him just enough
dimension that you actually have sympathy for him.

The best performance in Next
Fall is by Patrick Heusinger. Throughout the
play I kept asking: Why does Adam stay with Luke?
Besides the obvious answer that Luke is young and
adorable and sexy. Heusinger provides the answer
as each of his relationship scenes develop. We,
the audience, fall more and more in love with him,
not just because HE loves life so much but because
he loves Adam so much. Heusinger allows us into
Luke’s mind and heart and we are able to experience
his conflict first hand.

The play left me wanting more,
which is what good theatre should do. There is an
amazing eleventh hour hospital scene that is cut
too short by a playwright intent on keeping a balance.
I longed for the rest of this scene to be played
out. Then I realized, I had a rare opportunity to
play it out myself in my head. Nauffts treats his
audience as intelligent beings not idiots that need
to be preached to. Bravo.